


A Steward of the Land

by oneill



Category: Karneval
Genre: Gen, POV Original Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-24
Updated: 2013-09-24
Packaged: 2017-12-27 12:33:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/978934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneill/pseuds/oneill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the fic_promptly prompt: any, any, portrait of a gentleman</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Steward of the Land

It was an unusually warm autumn morning in Arvanila, and I sat alone at a table at a sidewalk café, awaiting the arrival of Second Ship's Captain Hirato. Would he descend from on high in a beam of beatific light, as the few witnesses I managed to track down had said (always in quiet, reverent tones)? So intent was I on searching the clear sky that the quiet "I'm sorry to have kept you waiting" that drifted over my shoulder nearly made me jump out of my seat.

Hirato was a tall, dark-haired man whose humble bearing stood in stark contrast to his lofty position within the National Defense Organization. Were it not for our appointment, I might have mistaken him for a waiter.

Indeed, his dress put me in mind of a traditional butler: the sober black of his coat and trousers, the spotlessly white gloves and starched shirt. Color made its appearance only in a tastefully muted red tie and the matching band around the base of his silk hat. It was, after all, the formal uniform of Circus's officers that likely inspired the somewhat proprietary sobriquet "stewards of the land."

While it may seem cruel at first to call them the mere caretakers of another's land, crueler still is how apt the epithet is. Since Circus's inception fourteen years ago, those who wish to join its ranks must relinquish their citizenship, their familial ties, and even their identities. That they must accept exile from the very home they seek to protect is, perhaps, the harshest of ironies.

"Perhaps," Hirato allowed when I expressed this impression during our stroll down the shopping avenue. "However, it seems a vanishingly small price to pay if even one person is saved as a result."

"Are all members of Circus that selfless?" Even as I asked, it seemed a foregone conclusion. While their families are handsomely rewarded for their service (current estimates place it at a staggering 48 million annually), Circus members are themselves provided with a far more modest stipend. This is, of course, entirely dependent on whether they live long enough to make use of such discretionary funds.

Hirato stopped at the corner to offer a smile and a bow. "You give me too much credit," he said.

Here, _steward_ seemed fitting in another way. Hirato's quiet dignity precluded the label of _servile_ , but his temperament was clearly that of a natural servant. This manifested in ways both obvious (his unfailingly courteous speech and deportment were impossible to miss) and subtle (the way he shepherded me across the street so that the glare of the shifting sun would not be in my eyes escaped my notice until hours after the conclusion of our interview).

"And what about the shows?" I asked, the interests of national security forbidding me to ask about Circus's other duties. "Do you ever feel that they're a waste of Circus resources? Obviously it's important to cultivate goodwill from the public, but I'm sure you could accomplish that by hiring performers. Why send your own elite fighters instead?"

"Living on the ships makes us distant," he said as we crossed the street--headed, I now realized, toward the station, and the train that I would board in an hour's time. "Perspectives change. Wielding great power, we forget what it's like to feel helpless. With blood soaking our hands, we forget innocence. The shows are just as important for us, I think. We need to put faces to the people we protect. We need to remind ourselves of what's at stake."

At that moment, an epiphany sprang upon me, catching me so unawares that I nearly halted in my tracks. It seemed possible that Hirato knew nothing of the multiple murderer recently apprehended in Bimlaut, of the arsonist who confessed to burning down Harfsel's beloved ballet hall, of the countless, entirely human-wrought horrors that we term (rather perversely) _mundane_ , as below the attentions of Circus.

But I lacked the courage to disabuse the captain of his error. I knew that, in this rare instance of one-on-one civilian interaction, I had of necessity become a representative of all our citizenry--of, perhaps, the whole of humanity. When Hirato spoke of "the people," he spoke of me. I wanted to preserve that image of myself, as well as that of all our species.

I also lacked the heart. Hirato had sacrificed so much, continued to sacrifice on a daily basis, for the people he saw as helpless and innocent. I could not be the one to unveil the darkness that lies beneath the veneer of the everyday. Is it presumptuous to wish to protect someone unfathomably stronger than oneself? Undoubtedly. But there was something fragile in his expression as he spoke those deceptively dispassionate words. This man needed to believe that his sacrifices were worthwhile, that people were indeed worth saving. I think that, to some degree, I do as well. . . .

 

"'Something fragile in his expression.' Real." Gareki looked up from his phone. "So did you even _go_ to the interview, or did you tell the author to just make a bunch of crap up based on a picture or something?"

"How rude," Hirato said, steepling his fingers in front of his smirk. "I think I come across rather well in that article."

Gareki remained deadpan. "Exactly."


End file.
